No Greater Love Page 8

  Albert was a prime candidate for psychotherapy. But it would never happen. His mother would probably understand—possibly even approve. His father would not hear of it. Men did not get analyzed. Women were, the sole subjects for therapy, since women, by definition (from the Greek hystera [womb]), were the only ones who became hysterical. Men who sought or received therapy were “as weak as women.”

  So, for example, when Albert went out on the rare date, he was gentlemanly and respectful (for Mother) and distant (for Dad). Girls found Albert safe and boring.

  There certainly was nothing wrong with Albert physically. At approximately five feet eight and likely to add another couple of inches as he matured, he was slender but well built. He avoided contact sports, competing against himself. He excelled at track and swimming. That way, he could be alone with himself while setting his pace and making the turns.

  And, like Dad, Al wore his hair in an almost military brush cut. It was a statement.

  Before graduating from high school, he completed driver’s training and got his license. His father gave him a new Volvo. It was an expensive gift. But Dad firmly believed that, as long as the priest was “good”—loyal to the Pope and vera doctrina—nothing was too good for Father. That byword included his son, who, without question, would be a good seminarian and priest.

  With satisfactory academic marks, very little maturation, and his virginity intact, Albert went on to college and the seminary.

  Had he lived back in the fifties, at this stage of his life he would have been one of some nine hundred and fifty seminarians, almost all of whom would have been of minimum age for their grade years.

  As it was, he was one of seventy-some seminarians of widely varying ages. Of the nonseminarian student body, the vast majority were women, mostly women of Al’s age.

  Albert had not had female classmates since grade school. He quickly concluded that college women were a very different consideration from elementary school girls.

  Albert was confused.

  He needed someone older and wiser to guide him through this traumatic time.

  Enter William Page.

  Someplace along the line of accommodating the shrinking number of seminarians, a rule was made that candidates must spend at least six years preparing for priesthood. This law allowed for few exceptions. If Latin had not been reduced to an elective course, preparation time might well have been longer.

  William Page had a degree from Notre Dame, a university with a stellar reputation for scholarship, even with regard to its athletes. He also had many years’ experience in advertising. Here at the seminary neither mattered.

  Page and Cody were juniors in seminary college when they first met at St. Joseph’s. Now, five-plus years later, they had spent a goodly amount of time together. Class size, in any subject offered, was small enough that the students got to know each other well.

  From the very beginning of their relationship, Cody had deferred to Page, in a dependent sort of way.

  Page didn’t mind. Cody’s dependence was not of an annoying nature. Besides, Page enjoyed Cody’s gradual metamorphosis into gofer, researcher, ghostwriter, surrogate son—in sum, a creature only a few steps up from a flunky.

  Cody was glad to perform small services. He had so much to learn. As the years rolled by and ordination neared, he grew more and more aware of his arrested adolescence. It seemed to him the seminary system was designed to slow his development.

  In only a few more months, I will be a priest, he thought.

  He compared himself with his mentor, Bill Page, who was old enough to be his father.

  When the two talked, as they frequently did, it was clear that Page was ready on all counts to assume the new clerical role. He was of an age that he could realistically be called “Father”—if parishioners wished to so address him. Sure, a lot of them would be older than he … old enough even to be his father. Still, the span of the mid-forties was, objectively, an age of maturity.

  Page also was ready for ordination theologically. Though he had no independent conviction about such matters, he had learned to rely on the theological bent of the majority of his seminary professors. Thus he was in complete conformity with the magisterium, i.e., the Pope.

  It was a safe, comfortable path. The magisterium instructed you what to believe and what laws to obey. Believe this and do that and heaven is guaranteed you.

  Page was ready.

  Cody was not.

  At his ordination, Cody would be all of twenty-five. Not a child by any means. Yet nowhere near as mature as contemporaries in the big, bad world. He had so little experience. Out there, men his age had begun a distinctively adult life. They had to hold down demanding jobs, into which they had to grow.

  They were starting families, undoubtedly their primary responsibility. They had to budget their incomes—and they knew how. They knew the rules and regulations that governed their lives in the workplace as well as in the home.

  Some belonged to Catholic parishes and attended Mass on Sunday. These—the Faithful—could be divided roughly into three groups: the main body of middle-of-the-roaders, the liberals, and the conservatives. Both of the latter were deeply—sometimes intensely—committed and involved in the Church structure on the diocesan and parochial levels.

  Meanwhile, Albert Cody was still a student. He attended school—much the same sort of school he had attended on the elementary, high school, and college levels. He and his fellow students seldom questioned what they were taught. They learned basically from the magisterium. There was enough of this to tide them over from year to year.

  Far from starting a family, Al Cody barely knew where babies came from. No matter how long he preached and taught, he would never completely grasp the responsibility of raising a family or holding down a job in order to provide that family stability and security.

  All in all, unlike his mentor, Albert Cody felt childlike in relating to his coming parishioners. To them he would be “Father”—the way things were going in parochial life, probably “Father Al.”

  He would, of course, have to deal with the right, the center, and the left. But how? He had no convictions of his own, nothing he could depend upon. He was pretty sure he would be conservative to the right, liberal to the left, and at relative ease with the uncommitted.

  He was confused. And he was afraid.

  His only hope, as he saw it, was to depend on and learn from Bill Page.

  They were an odd couple, in more than one respect. Page at approximately six feet was some inches taller than Cody. His oval face usually wore a bland expression. His seasoned eyes seemed older than the rest of him. They had seen a lot.

  His dark brown hair was combed straight back. He was a tad overweight, soft from a life that had involved little physical exertion. He smiled effortlessly and often—like someone bent on selling you advertising space or time.

  He made few friends. Which is why he had so much time for Albert Cody.

  Page and Cody had overlingered in the dining room; it was time for evening study. Donnelly and Zawalich had long since departed and were in their respective rooms preparing for tomorrow’s classes.

  The two deacons rose. Page made a great show of the sign of the cross and a loud recitation of the grace after meals. Cody could not bring himself to follow suit. Even though he was preparing to lead prayer as a professional, he could not pray that ostentatiously. He finished his silent, almost surreptitious grace, and waited patiently for his companion to grind to a halt in his pretentious prayer.

  As they left the dining room, Page said, “Hey, before we split for our rooms, let’s go take a look at McNiff’s door—the one that Donnelly mucked up.”

  Laughing conspiratorially, they made their way to the bishop’s quarters.

  Thanks to Andrea Zawalich’s compulsive cleanliness, they were, of course, sadly disappointed.

  Eleven

  Three weeks passed. Things were settling down into the sort of routine Father Koesler found comfo
rting.

  When Koesler told Father Tully about the conversation he’d had with Bishop McNiff and the bishop’s invitation to help at the seminary, Tully seemed relieved. This reaction surprised Koesler.

  Though Koesler was fully in accord with the school of thought that said a retired pastor did not hang around his former parish, still, he had been ready to make himself available to St. Joe’s parish as well as the seminary. It would have made for a busy ministry, but he was sure he could handle it—he would even welcome it. Especially in retirement, it was nice to be wanted.

  He had not planned to remain in residence at the parish, but, at Tully’s invitation, had stayed on temporarily till he found another residence.

  Tully, upon learning of McNiff’s invitation, made it clear that Koesler would be welcome anytime for any reason to bunk at St. Joe’s. And it would be great if Koesler would cover at times when Tully was away on vacation or any other absence.

  What Father Koesler found odd was that he would not be needed for regular weekend fill-in.

  Detroit pastors who successfully recruited or lucked into such a commitment from outside counted their blessings.

  But Father Tully was the pastor now, and could do what he wished with this unexpected offer. If the new pastor handled all the Masses, daily and weekends, the parishioners would be getting the Gospel According to Tully. More and more these days one was apt to receive a personalized message from the pulpit. Homelists, in this postconciliar age, differed not only in their public speaking talent but also in their interpretation of the particulars of Church, State, and Scripture.

  So, while Koesler did leave a few items of clothing behind at St. Joe’s rectory, he had taken up residence more or less permanently in the seminary.

  His responsibilities there were left ambiguous. He made himself available to the students, both M.Divs and nonseminarians. The students, for their part, approached him tentatively. He was an unknown factor. And until they discovered whether he represented the center, the left, or the right, a good bit of testing would take place.

  Early on in his residence, he had volunteered to coach in the Homiletics program. Regretfully, that cut him off from the non-M.Divs, who were excluded from any course directly aimed at preparation for the priesthood.

  However, Father Koesler was convinced that homilies, whether given for just a few minutes daily, or slightly longer on weekends, were among the most rewarding and important opportunities of priestly services. He wanted to give the students the benefit of his many years’ experience along these lines.

  Increasingly immersed in the students’ lives, in this short three-week period, he had almost forgotten good old St. Joe’s. Thus he was surprised when he got a call from Bill Cody. So surprised that at first, Koesler drew a blank. Cody? Who was Cody? As memory slowly widened, Koesler recalled first the brush cut; gradually a more detailed mental image of Bill Cody followed.

  After meaningless pleasantries, Cody got down to business briskly: Could he meet with Koesler?

  “Well, yes, of course. Is it urgent?”

  “I think it is!”

  “Care to tell me what it’s about?”

  Hesitation. Then, “Better to do this in person.”

  “Okay. When and where? I’ve got some time tomorrow afternoon. Or Wednesday morning. Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner?”

  “How about tonight? Your room at the seminary. Say, seven-thirty?”

  There’s no such thing as a free lunch, thought Koesler. “Okay. You know how to get here?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “I’ll give your name to the guard, Bill. Security is pretty tight here.”

  “See you then. And thanks.”

  Koesler hung up and leaned back in his chair, lost in thought.

  The wisdom of having a retired priest move out of his parish was being brought home to him for the first time.

  Bill Cody was president of St. Joseph’s parish council. He’d held the post for—what—about two years now?

  The parish council was one of the first offspring of Vatican II. Its purpose, patently, was to give the laity a voice in running the parish.

  But how large a voice? How much clout?

  From the beginning, in many parishes, pastors and councils were at loggerheads. At times, open clashes left the pastor furious and the. council frustrated. Now, after some thirty years of coexistence, there generally was a better rapport. Still, things could get dicey. This was especially true when a Bill Cody was on the parish council or, a fortiori, president of it.

  Although it could be said that there never was much friction between pastor Koesler, and council president Cody, that was due largely to the liturgies Koesler conducted.

  Everything was on the “A” list. The Scripture readings, the Mass prayers, the hymns—all were approved by the proper authorities.

  Once a month—again locally approved after Vatican permission was granted—there was even a Latin Mass—and a choir trained and capable to render both plainchant and polyphony. Bill Cody could have asked for little more.

  Koesler, in the privacy of his room, chuckled. It was a good thing Mr. Cody had been unaware of what went on in the rectory where Church law was benignly interpreted to shield and free troubled souls.

  Oh yes, Bill Cody would not have found Koesler’s implementation of law intended for the preservation of the institution amusing.

  As to the reason for Cody’s rapidly approaching visit, Koesler could only guess. Bill’s tone sounded barely controlled. This would not be a pleasant encounter. But then it was not Koesler’s experience that people rang his doorbell to bring unqualified good news.

  Whatever burr was under Cody’s saddle, it probably had something to do with the parish.

  It couldn’t be anything that had taken place on Koesler’s watch; Cody would have complained much earlier than this. So, what could it be?

  Koesler checked his watch, something over the years that he did regularly and frequently. Time enough to find out at seven-thirty what was troubling Bill Cody. Meanwhile, Koesler donned cassock and collar—a custom resurrected by the present faculty and one with which he had no quarrel—and betook himself to the faculty lounge for an appetizer and a drink.

  By and large the faculty might be a conservative lot, but Koesler enjoyed them and their spirited conversations. Although occasionally he wondered what they thought of him.

  Face-to-face, at least, they were polite and courteous. They couldn’t have agreed less with his opinions on the Church magisterium. And the teaching authority of the Church was the highest priority of their lives.

  Perhaps their outward acceptance was a reaction to his friendship with the boss, Bishop McNiff.

  As time ran on, Koesler was certain he would learn what was more important in this setting: what he knew or who he knew.

  Although Father Koesler had been in residence for several weeks now, he had not yet dined with the faculty. He thought it wise to climb aboard gradually, so. he’d eaten at restaurants or with friends. Tonight, he decided, he would mingle.

  In the faculty parlor before dinner he joined a group discussing the pedophile charges that persisted against priests. The discussion had started before his arrival, so he merely listened.

  One priest discounted the claims in general as being no more than à means of making a quick buck; so many of the dioceses affected tended to settle out of court. Kids now grown could accuse priests of long-ago molestation and, rather than go to trial, the diocese would pay serious amounts of dollars.

  Most of the others in this group tended to agree, but with reservations. According to them, the out-of-court settlements were not a knee-jerk reaction to bad publicity, but an unpleasant matter of fact.

  Another present wondered why any priest would commit such a serious sin, let alone crime.

  The consensus seemed to focus on deficiency in prayer life. What did Jesus have to say about it? “This kind of devil does not leave but by prayer and fasting.”

&
nbsp; There followed a roundtable discussion.

  “It’s all a matter of money.”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  “Be serious. It started almost twenty years ago. That’s when bishops petitioned the Holy See to allow laicization of priests under forty.”

  Koesler remembered the time during the present Pope’s reign when the Vatican would not consider laicizing any priest—for any reason—before the priest reached age forty. Why forty? Koesler had never completely figured that out.

  The discussion continued.

  “Well, then the Roman congregation asked the Holy Father to consider ‘exceptional reasons’ for the dispensation. And you know what those exceptional reasons were?”

  “I think so. But you seem to have researched this recently. Go ahead.”

  “Well, you needn’t be so. brusque. Anyway, the congregation wanted to get rid of any priest who had some form of defect that would invalidate his ordination.”

  “Just like in marriage.”

  “Exactly. Just as in a marriage that is annulled. There has to be a defect before and at the time of the marriage that makes the marriage invalid.”

  “I see. Say two people want to get married, but one of them has been married before. And the previous marriage is presumed valid. Then the second marriage cannot be valid because of the previous and present impediment.”

  “So, the burden of proof lies with the priest who alleges that his ordination is invalid because of some defect. Like he says he was forced into ordination.”

  “Mother won’t talk to him if he doesn’t get ordained?”

  “That’s one reason. But, a couple of years ago, the bishops asked for and got a further warrant for laicization. Under this category, they want Rome to rush through the laicization process for any priest involved in sexual misconduct or abuse. And you know why?”

  “To get rid of him, I imagine.”

  “Exactly. Charges are being brought against a priest—and his diocese. And the diocese”—breaking into laughter—“is claiming, ‘He isn’t one of ours!’”